The Art of Perception
by Angeleyez
Summary: “I feel like I should ask you something, or tell you something,” she states. “It feels like something needs to be said.” Rory, Jess, an encounter at the beach. Oneshot.


**Title**: The Art of Perception

**Author**: Angeleyez

**Disclaimer**: We've been over this. I own nothing.

**Summary**: "I feel like I should ask you something, or tell you something," she states. "It feels like something needs to be said." Rory, Jess, an encounter at the beach. One-shot.

**A/N**: This ficlet is a challenge that Becka sent my way. So thanks to Becka for making me bust out of my block, and to Mai, because she's Mai. And really, you don't need a larger reason then that. (You're wonderful, dahling.)

The world ends on a Friday in a two AM darkness. It ends with blue eyes and the flicker of startled recognition. A moment later it is reborn with a lazy smile, the ascent hesitant, slow. At first, she is blurry, an artist's creation not yet fully developed. To him, she is only a splash of memory against the backdrop of the beach. Seconds pass as her form gradually becomes more vivid, and finally, she is a technicolor image, beautiful and here and watching.

The improbability of this meeting is quite high, but he pushes that from his mind. The stars must have aligned tonight, the constellations alive and vibrant, coming together just for him. Perhaps fate miscalculated because it has always seemed to hold some sort of grudge against him. Fate, after all, is what prompted his father's appearance the same week he dropped out of high school. Fate is what placed Dean at Rory's dorm, the night he wanted to speak with her. Tonight, however, is different. It may be an error, a mistake; but it is in his favor.

Around him, the night takes on a life of its own, the inky blackness swirling, catching on clothes and discarded beer cans. Jess blinks, and the air is motionless, but she is still across the way, studying him with a funny kind of wonder. He knows better than to approach her, and averts his eyes, figuring he needs to leave this alone. Picking up a bottle from the nearby cooler, he moves further down the beach, away from her and his friends.

An island of rocks disrupts his path, and he curves around it, disappearing from view. After a few more steps, he pauses and takes a sip of his beer, staring out at the water. The waves fall quietly, spilling onto the shore, before slinking back. However, they are loud enough to cover up the sound of someone approaching until it is too late and she is by his side.

She looks like a ghost, dressed in a white bikini with a modest sarong of the same milky color tied around her waist. Her hair is longer now, thick and dark under the dim glow of the moon, hiding the straps of her top. He is suddenly hit with the phantom sensation of those silky strands sliding through his fingers, her smile pressed into his shoulder. But just as quickly, the feeling is gone, and he is left tingling and dizzy, half drunk on beer and the sea air, and unprepared for an encounter of this magnitude.

He is surprised when she speaks, almost convinced that words would not be needed tonight. Perhaps she had only wanted a closer look, and that would be enough. Then she could go back to her group of friends, and disappear again in a cloud of white and blue. But once more, he is proven wrong and foolish.

"Hi," she says slowly, testing this new word.

"Hi." He takes another sip, and finds he can no longer taste the alcohol. There is a distant burn, but he feels it in his chest instead of his throat.

"Jess," she begins, the word sounding misplaced coming from her mouth, "what are you doing here?"

Surprisingly, there is no accusatory tone, only a simple curiosity and an unexpected kind of friendliness directed toward him. Briefly, he wonders how inebriated she is.

"Friend's birthday. We celebrated at his house, at a restaurant, at a strip club, at a bar, and now at a beach."

He struggles to match images with his words, but his memory fails him. He finds the past few hours a yellow haze that makes his head swim if he concentrates too hard. The haze keeps leaking out, impeding his vision, adding extra pencil strokes to Rory's outline. He blinks again.

"Covering all the bases," she remarks, with a hint of a smile. Her eyes twinkle up at him, and he knows she's drunk. Fuck.

"What about you?" he asks, remembering comfort and ease and familiarity. But they are only impressions, unreal and untouchable. Shouldn't she be angry for his leaving again and again? Shouldn't he be angry for her rejection and refusal to understand?

She leans a bit closer, her expression girlish and excited, telling him a secret. "I'm graduating tomorrow."

"Congratulations," he says dumbly, unable to think of anything else.

Before either can stumble forward with the half conversation, a splash is heard, and then another and another. Jess narrows his eyes and barely makes out the dark forms of what he guesses to be his friends out in the water. They are loud and unruly, yelling and splashing and having fun. He glances back at Rory.

"Going to join them?" she asks delicately.

"Wasn't planning on it." He sits in the sand as if to solidify his statement. "Going back to the party?"

"Wasn't planning on it," she echoes. "Most of them are drunk," she elaborates, "and I'm one of the designated drivers."

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise at this piece of information. She seems too calm, too _relaxed_ around him to be entirely sober. But he knows her, and if she has to drive later, he can bet she's been sipping cokes instead. She takes a seat next to him.

"I feel like I should ask you something, or tell you something," she states. "It feels like something needs to be said."

He nods in agreement even though he does not want to face this.

As if the film strip has skipped a frame ahead, she speaks again, her voice startling him. "How are you?"

He considers the question, and then her. She's delaying the inevitable.

"I'm good," he tells her, speaking the truth. He's happy and he wants her to know it. "I have an apartment, and I've been working at this one place the past year."

"What do you do?"

He takes one final drink from his beer before casting the bottle off to the side. "I work in an office building. I answer phones, run errands…"

"Liar."

"I do, I swear. I work forty hour weeks."

She tilts her head to the side, studying him. "You don't have to wear a tie, do you?"

"No."

"Good. I can't see you wearing a tie. They're too formal." She pauses. "I'm glad you're happy, and you're doing well."

"Me too." He fumbles for a moment; what to say next? "So, you're graduating."

"With honors," she adds.

"I thought that went without saying," he teases.

"I'm graduating," she repeats. "And you're working and you're happy."

She's restating facts, and he's floundering. "Yes."

There is a faint tugging on the sleeve of his jacket, and looking down, he finds her fingers brushing against the leather. Upon closer inspection, he sees a vague shape slowly forming beneath her hand. With each second, it becomes more distinct, finally revealing itself to be a deep red heart. It looks papery, a sloppily drawn cartoon pulsating and beating, and when he looks up, she's staring back at him.

"Yes." It's her voice, but then it's not.

Guiltily, she casts her eyes downward, hanging on to anything but him. He knows where she is right now, thinking back.

"I think I'm supposed to say I'm sorry."

"I think I am too," he agrees.

She leans forward and kisses him, and briefly, he wonders if this is her attempt at redemption. But then, he is kissing her back, his hands in her hair, on her skin, and she is warm, soft as a dream. She pulls on the zipper of his jacket, and he shrugs it off, happy to be free of the heavy leather. As soon as it hits the ground, she grasps his shoulders, bringing him into the sand with her.

Sand slips down the back of his shirt, as her arm encircles his neck, her fingers slowly snaking through his hair. A dizzy rush flies through him, her touch enticing him further. His hand pushes a lock of her hair away from the hollow of her neck, before traveling further down, following the curve of her breast. He reaches her stomach, and pauses at the top of the sarong, where the gauze ends lay in a knot. Spurred on by instinct and desire, he goes to untie the material, when she abruptly pulls away. Immediately, he realizes his mistake.

Instead of frowning up at him or pushing him off, she turns her head to stare out at the rest of the beach. He follows her move and looks over at the mountain of rocks that hides them from view. The water is black and still, empty of its previous occupants, and the other side of the beach is quiet, its noise muffled by the waves. A faint red hue of the bonfire is seen, but besides that, there is a heavy feeling of isolation. She picks up on this too.

Staring back up at him, she appears thoughtful, but nothing more. He feels he should warn her.

"I don't live near here," he says. "I'm only up visiting a few friends. I moved back to California."

"After tomorrow, I don't know where I'll be."

And then she is untying the sarong herself. It falls to the sand, forming a white puddle around her; he has to remind himself to breathe. Her hands move to his jeans, and seconds later they are unzipped and her bathing suit is pushed away, and he's crashing into her.

He feels the beach all around him; the sand, the rocks, the water. It weighs down on him, so he's out of breath and out of his mind. In front of him, the scenery flickers, changing colors, and there is blue. It is her eyes, half open and misty; for a moment, it's all he can see.

She lets out a yell, breaking the pristine color in front of him. He thinks it's his name, but he cannot tell. There is only her voice, surrounding him, and closing in; he fades in and out. Then, both are static, the night air washing over them. It is cooler, sharp and stinging, but they barely notice.

His face rests against her neck, as he regains control of his breathing. He feels her fingertips walking across his back, beneath his shirt. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he knows that it is impossible that this is her first time. There is almost disappointment with this, regret, but mostly there is a calm and a contentment with finally knowing and having no idea at the same time. He nips her neck, and she's sandy, and salty, and everything.

"Rory?"

The voice sounds muffled, coming from too far a distance. Beneath him, she starts at the sound, looking back over at the island of rocks. Someone has noticed her absence; someone is calling her name.

He rolls off her, directly into the awkward moment in which they both dress, looking away from one another. Her name is called again.

"Rory." This time he tries. He is waiting for her regret or disgust or for her to run away. He's waiting for _something_. "You should answer."

"I…"

"They'll get worried," he points out.

"I think that's my boyfriend."

He finds he no longer needs to breathe. The air simply leaves him; he deflates. Never once did he connect tonight with the future. One encounter on the beach doesn't mean they are alright, and can get back together. However, he never suspected a boyfriend. Once again, he and Rory are all wrong; tonight will be chalked up as a mistake.

"You have a boyfriend," he states.

"Jess…"

"I can't believe…" He trails off because he doesn't know. He really doesn't, and never has.

"Come on, Jess. This," she gestures toward the two of them, then the beach, "this is all we are, what we always were."

"I'm sorry, I don't recall fucking you on a beach or anywhere else."

"You know what I mean."

And he does. Never mind the books or music or conversation. This was what he was for her.

"You were just a phase," she says.

"Well, now that you've gotten me out of your system, by all means, please, go back to your boyfriend."

"Jess…" She's tired now, stressed. She sounds sad.

"I got it," he snaps. "I wasn't Dean, I was the guy who came after."

She freezes at the name drop, and his stomach tightens. "Dean?" he asks, pointing to the other side of the beach. She nods.

He looks down to where she still sits on her sarong. It is a sheer white, and he pictures it is as a veil. He should have known to equate Dean with forever.

"You should get going," he says, "You know how Dean gets."

"You should go," she counters. "That's how it always is."

This isn't new. Nothing has changed in the years apart or the minutes together. He gets it though, even if he didn't want to before.

"Rory?" Her name again, louder, drifting closer.

"I'm sorry." There it is, what needed to be said.

"I'm not." His answer.

He stands to leave, but she gets up too, her hand on his arm. She leans forward, kisses him again, and he lets her. He pulls her closer, molding her into something more than a phase, or a mistake; more than his past. She is iridescent, glimmering, fading. He feels her slipping through his fingers, away, and then he is waking up.

He jerks out of sleep, and sits up in bed, his eyes slow to adjust to the darkness of his apartment. He looks around the room, almost disbelieving. Running a hand through his hair, he takes a deep breath. There is no beach, no Rory, no lingering taste.

There is nothing.


End file.
